Wednesday, 31 December 2008
He closed his mind. Detached from himself. And he let loose. For hours, he just was. No thoughts, no considerations, nothing. Even when he felt his body protest, burn, scream, he did not stop. No, he thought, not now. There would come a time and a place for that. That moment was neither.
Monday, 1 December 2008
This is going to be hellmonth. More hellmonth than the one I've mentioned before. Gah. Life is going to get even more difficult, I can see it coming.
I'm not going to post about the terror incidents in Mumbai; to me, that's like insulting the gravity of it.
Hopefully, I'll be able to put something up here again soon.
Wednesday, 19 November 2008
It was at this moment that a woman from the Finance department slunk over to where I was standing and said acidly, "That's my dabba." Now, being the excessive people-pleaser that I am, instead of standing my ground and defending what looked like it was mine, I just said, "Oh, really? Sorry," and handed it over (yes, yes, get it over with, call me all those names. Done? You sure? Check again. I thought so. Now are you done? Good) to her to inspect.
I dove back into the dabba drawer for my Lock & Lock while this woman continued to tell me how there was some kind of inscription on the side of her metal dabba in Gujarati. This comment struck me, as I had noticed nothing of the sort on the dabba during my, if I may say so myself, rather thorough examination of it. It was also, by coincidence or providence, at this very instant that my fingers perchanced upon another metal dabba of dimensions similar to the one being discussed. Closer observation revealed to me a script of some form inscribed on the side.
Of course, connections start firing up in my head. Quick as electricity, I whipped the new metal dabba out and brought to her notice the aforementioned script, which looked decidedly Gujarati. When presented with all the facts and hard evidences of the case, the dear lady was left with no option but to arrive at the most logical conclusion: "No, the first dabba is mine, I can feel it."
The rest of the conversation took place as follows:
Umm... What was that?
This dabba is not mine.
But it has the Gujarati on the side...
But no, this one is not mine. Yeah, mine is the lighter one.
But they weigh the same!
No, no. This one is not mine.
Now what can one really do in the face of such arguments, especially when one is, as previously mentioned, a serial people-pleaser? That's absolutely right, nothing. Quietly, I conceded and slunk off. There are some types that you just can't argue with. Especially those that make your salary statements.
At the end of a long and tiresome day that involved mindgames against the worthiest of opponents, the nimble warrior went back to the horde of treasures. And what should he see lying amongst them, but the very pearl he feared he had lost forever? Deftly, casting a wary eye in every direction, he pocketed what was rightfully his. And on silent toes, he padded niftily into the black night. The pearl was never seen again.
Sunday, 16 November 2008
Talk about hitting your prospect when he's on a relevant topic.
Next thing you know, they'll be marketing enema bags to people running searches on shampoo.
But apparently, you like me not as much as you would have me believe. You now conspire directly in my opposition. Is this Lent? Would you have me weather the storm? Okay, then.
Game on, bitch.
Tuesday, 11 November 2008
I have nothing more to say.
Wednesday, 5 November 2008
We have a system in our office where one can leave one's dabba to be washed by the office staff after lunch, and they'll bung it in one drawer in the pantry for you to come and pick it up at the end of the day.
Sounds neat, doesn't it? It is, except, as in all good things, there's a catch. Despite this advanced clearance system, there is one flaw. We don't label our dabbas, and as there are only so few functionally well made dabbas on the market, a lot of us have similar, if not the same products.
What this means, is that people often pick up other people's dabbas out of habit on days when they themselves haven't brought theirs (reference to my previous post and that bit about being slaves to habit). At least, that's the only rational explanation I see for this. Anyway, in that process, I lost three metal dabbas. Not that I was particularly attached to the unwieldly beasts, it's just that my mother makes sure I don't forget it.
Anyway, consequently, I start getting the plastic Lock & Lock dabbas which are less common. This, I thought was a fool-proof plan, seeing how my Lock & Locks are rather old, slightly browning and whatnot... Obviously, I was mistaken.
Because someone in my office has taken that one and left a brand new but otherwise identical dabba in its place for me. I've waited four days for this person to realise their mistake, but that doesn't seem to be happening, so I guess I'm going to have to take the new one... I have no choice! = )
Friday, 31 October 2008
People need to make up their minds. Seriously. You can't call me 'immature' one day and 'young-at-heart" the next. One's a good thing, the other's not. I don't mind being called either, just not both.
*sigh* I cannot accurately describe the perils of coming out of the agnostic closet to a hyper-religious mother. I came close to it not so long ago, and it wasn't pretty.
Indecision sucks. A lot. It's really crappy that people crib about me being childish and noisy, and when I stop being so, complain that I'm too quiet and moody. What do you want, really?
Mother can't speak in normal tone or at normal volume anymore. I guess 17 years of screaming at 4 and 5 year-olds has taken its toll.
How to freak out hotel cleaning staff: When you leave your room, leave in the dustbin a sanitary napkin and a condom.
My brother needs help. He says he has trouble sleeping in our room because it's too hot. He also makes it a point, every night, to turn the fan speed down to 1.
Drunk driving is fun. Before you all get ballistic on me, I mean getting drunk and playing NFS. Oh, it is so much fun to crash other people's cars on purpose. They honk like frightened little girls!!! *hee hee hee*
Any arguments about the brilliance of cinema are utterly useless in the face of this one comment: "My singing show is on." That statement is like the thunderclap on the Magnum in CounterStrike. Lethal first shot.
It's brilliant to hang out (and get mildly drunk) with old, old friends who you don't get to see very often anymore. It's kinda freaky when, based on the duration of your relationship, they start looking to you to define love, though.
I hate Alexander Graham Bell. Thanks to him, one's attachment to another person is measured purely by the number of times that person is called.
We are slaves to habit. And our subconsciousness. Like when iced tea is served in a small wine glass with an overly long, obnoxious straw, 8 out of 10 people will drink with the straw when it's infinitely more comfortable to bung it somewhere and drink straight from the glass.
Here's something you don't want happening to you: You go over to your Creative Director with ads to be approved, tell him that an email awaits him, and he turns to you slowly, saying, "I've got a sinking feeling about this," only to inform you a minute later he was referring to a malfunction in the height control on his chair.
Who am I?
Wednesday, 29 October 2008
So here's hoping people had a lovely time with India's greatest celebration of air pollution and child labour!
Clearly, I'm not a festival-sy kind of guy.
Let it also be stated for the record that this frame of mind is brought about only by my thorough dislike of what these festivals now stand for. I'm sure they originally had loftier ideals in mind, but that's clearly not the case anymore.
Friday, 17 October 2008
This of course, means that those of you who haven't, need to go read The Gap - Part I and The Gap - Part II. Those of you who have, need to go refresh your memory. And those of you who spend your days trolling back and forth in my archives (read my imaginary friends and I), well, chances are you've seen it already, but I was never much of a gambling man, so...
Anyway, will be on real soon.
Wednesday, 15 October 2008
So, I'm officially apologising for the delay, just been really dashed with work and all that, what with Bunny Singh deciding to move on to greener pastures... Someone's got to take over her workload, and from the looks of it, the CD thinks it should be me, even though Maniak a.k.a. Che a.k.a. Lady Bastard goofs around in office a lot more than I do. Yeah, it all begins with a casual, "Jhayu, do you have about ten minutes to spare?" and the next thing I know, a week later, Team Leads are being yelled at by Business Development people from Singapore for "not knowing that Jhayu has been assigned to XYZ campaign". It would really be rather amusing if it didn't involve my incarceration in the office.
In any case, I've decided that you guys have suffered long and hard enough (so have my page visits), so here's My Random Observation For The Day:
It's really brilliant how perspectives change. A month ago, if you'd have asked me which is the best seat in a BEST bus, without even a remote competitor, I'd have told you it was the second seat from the right (in that image). You get more wind blowing in, more legroom, fewer people cram into that section of the bus... I could go on and on.
Ask me the same question today, and my answer will be, "the sixth window from the left". And again, this is the best seat by a long, long margin. Why? Simple. The seat is optimally placed to get wind blowing from two windows, but ever more importantly, the overhead light is perfectly placed to allow reading. And believe you me, for someone who only really gets to read in the bus on the way home at somewhere close to 10.30 pm everyday, it's pretty important.
I realise this is not a real post. I have started writing one, one of my stabs at 'serious' writing. Yes, Chusks, it's Part III of The Gap. I'll have it out soon. I swear.
In the meantime, here's a fun thing to do. Read this post again with a British accent.
Wednesday, 8 October 2008
First off, a big shout out to the Lady Bastard a.k.a Maniak a.k.a Che for his assistance in resurrecting my ol' faithful.
And now, responses to those lovely people who cared enough about me to comment on my last. To show my gratitude, I shall link every last one of you. Not that that will achieve anything, but hey, it's the thought that counts, right?
Tell me you failed. Please tell me you failed.
@ Lady Bastard.
I think the answer is now redundant.
Go on. It was very funny. You can say it. And see, my blog, he like you.
've seen Quark Express used on a PC!!!
You're here? Like, here, here? Or just in India here?
You frigging R. Not even the remotest sense you have of how not to sound like a bot. Couldn't find an even remotely related post?
@ Bunny Singh.
Liar. You're not guilty at all about the fact that I no longer have a year's worth of photographs. Or any of my software. Evil Woman.
@ The Punguin (yeah, originality is a point I need to work on)
Now, now... Why so cynical? There are some lovely men out there. Like me!
Oh, that you would care enough even to want me arrested... *sighs*
So, will be back with a full fledged post soon. Either Jhayu's offline archives (yes, I've been storing them away), or the continuation of the much-abused Goa miniseries.
Till then, Ciao, familia...
Saturday, 4 October 2008
Yes, that means my PC is rather royally jacked. Add to that how little time I've been spending at work (he he he, that was a funny), and the end result is that it's going to be some time before I get anything new and interesting up here.
Thursday, 2 October 2008
Yeah, that means no one in my office can open a new gmail account while at work, 'cos the shared IP address is suspected of spamming.
Hey, I was on official work.
Monday, 29 September 2008
I so chose the wrong day to be sleepy and hung over. My neck hurts. My head hurts. *Coldplay album title*
Note to self. You're a noob. No more drinking till 2.
Yeah, get used to these postlets. April Jhayu is back.
Points for guessing the album title. Bunny Singh, Kurtnirvana excluded.
Sunday, 28 September 2008
So after that wonderful session with Sanjay Khare, which in turn was after that absolutely lovely session on branding with our CEO, they decided we've had enough lovely sessions for the day (I'm pretending that whole fiasco of overshooting our budget 3999 times didn't happen). And so, we were lugged in for the briefing on our Roman Holiday.
Now when we were being given the instructions, one guy in our team (our vice-captain) got all excited, and kept telling us to chill, and he'd tell us why he was getting so hyper and all that. When instruction time was over, we were shown our materials and he practically started hopping on one spot, singing, "Haan, we did this last year, no problem!" and "Ours was the winning design, the OE last year had told us that this is the optimum design!"
So with that kind of optimism brimming in the team, we charged into the game, all ready to win and crush our opponents like little bugs, slit their stomachs, ride over them in our charriots resplendent with the colours of war... er... sorry. Too much Percy Jackson for me (even though that's Greek mytho, same Gods, so big shit.) Anyhoo. So with all that confidence, we moved into the game, and the Vice-captain and I entered the arena to work on our machine. I was given a razor and told to get started on some cuts to be made on two bamboo sticks. Working industriously, I did so. Eventually, those cuts were not used. Heck, a lot of shit started to fall apart for us, with my eventual role as a stick holder, keeping one end of a stick in place with my foot while he did all the work. Not that I minded, I think I was just ruining things.
Anyhoo, ten minutes outside of time, we had a contraption that my vice-captain declared ready for use, but not one he'd be proud of. And so, without so much as a test run (I mention this because the team was damn kicked about it), we carried the contraption off to the playing field to see how it would fare. There was a nice list of criteria that had to be met by the design, including such points as:
- It must be free standing.
- It must be self propelled.
- It must not fall flat when you fire it causing your eternal embarrassment.
With a silent prayer, our brave VC pulled the trigger. With bated breath, we watched the tension in the elastic rubber bands set the ball in motion, as it was flung out of our contraption. Soaring through the air for what seemed in the little universes in our minds like minutes, it traversed the space-time continuum to land at a spot a fair distance away from us. In unison, the entire team began to rise, looking at each other with congratulatory and somewhat conspiratorial expressions, cheering ourselves. We were just about to start some natural, unrehearsed, primal dance of joy to make other teams jealous of us when we heard the magical word uttered by our OE.
Suddenly, the world of slow motion ceased to be. The dramatic lights and the Chariots of Fire theme in the background faded. The wheel rolled off our mighty chariot, the leading jockey fell off the horse, the model tripped on the runway halfway through her pout, the broadway star forgot his line, the VC and I almost collapsed onto our contraption. Together, we turned incedulously to our OE and said (still in unison, yeah, we were a pretty together team), "WHAT????" "Foul," he calmly repeated. "Your VC's foot was on that end of the catapult. The rules clearly state that the catapult must be free-standing." Of course, most of us had stopped listening long ago, angry and frustrated at (my best guess is) having given no input on this event whatsoever. Nonetheless, grudgingly, we resolved to make our remaining attempts.
Grumbling, and with sound and utterly unnecessary, unhelpful advice (yes, you know the type, everyone's got it at some point in their life) from our teammates (such pearls as,"Now be careful, haan? Don't put your foot there, okay?"), we set up our machine for the next throw. Two throws went without incident, and the best of two measurement came to a crushing 15.8 feet. To me, it looked more like 6 or 7, but heck, who am I to argue? We got the necessary bonus points, and somewhat pleased with our performance, headed out to dinner.
Dinner was (and I remember this for a reason, which you will all see soon) chinese food. Schezwan rice, some type of noodles, and a gravy dish I didn't venture near. As I ate the noodles, I realised I was eating some form of aperetif for starving bulimics. Moving on to the healthy serving of rice, I arrived at the positive conclusion that it was badly disguised pulao from the previous day (this is why I remember). Luckily I was saved from having to eat it by our then Director, now VP, let's call him Rat-a-tat-tat (because when he talks, it's like tommy gun fire) who, wrapped in a shawl, without footwear, and sporting a staff, asked me to make arrangements for a device usually accompanied by several drunk people.
What it was, why it was needed and what was done with it, will be made amply clear another day.
Friday, 26 September 2008
Thursday, 25 September 2008
He showed us more campaigns than I can bring out here, so I'll highlight the most prominent one. The Economist.
Their print ads were powerfully visual, and ridiculously simple in their message.
This is possibly their most famous ad, beginning a trend that they carried long and far.
The red and white became a symbol of the Economist, a theme they used very successfully. And the copy continued to be cheeky, as you can see.
Here are some examples in other media.
The campaign was so successful, other companies started to ride piggy-back on it; I think this one image tells the story rather well (click on it and see it in full resolution, it's worth it) .
The red rectangle went on to become so well known, that the Economist entered a new phase in their advertising. The name was no longer needed to know who the ad was for, as you can see here.
Finally, after a very long time, they've decided it's time to move on, so they've started an entirely new campaign. I'm not going into that, but I will link it. If you want, go check it out.
Still, I hope you're happy. And that you've learnt your lesson.
Tuesday, 23 September 2008
But yeah, that's how it began. See, there were points for punctuality on this damned trip, and we were supposed to report at 6.30. So when one of my roomies (probably the one responsible for the bathroom door locked from inside) woke me up and had me look at my watch, I felt not sligtly un-pissed that it was closing on 6.38 am.
At the CEO's presentation, we had the task of making a brand of jeans and positioning it in the market. After much haphazard discussion with my team, we decided to make a brand of jeans for those not able to buy expensive clothing, but who wanted to be in fashion. Yeah, the real Indian urban youth that has an aspiration to be somewhere and whatnot. So, we made a brand of jeans called iDENTITi, cheap, yet stylish, so that people would stop buying knockoffs at Fashion Street that fall apart in two days. Yes, you read that right. Our competition was knockoffs. Possibly not the wisest thing to have done, in retrospect. Whatever. Moving on.
Thursday, 18 September 2008
Tuesday, 16 September 2008
Saturday, 13 September 2008
A little later, more guys from P******m decided to come to the same place, and a rather bright chap decided to buy me another friar. Having a couple of the neophytes, I was a little bit unsteady on my feet (though not as much as on the last day, we'll get to that someday), but the lot of us still set out to the beach next to the restaurant. Here, I promptly threw myself onto the sand, staring at the sky postulating the universe as an entity. Maniak will disagree. After spending a few hours here, we decided to head back to the resort, maybe catch some sleep.
Of course, once we got there, those plans changed. A bunch of people were generally chilling by the pool, but apparently decided that they needed to cool off further. So one by one, P******mers were rather unceremoniously introduced to Mr. Pool. Now, being prone to pneumonia, I decided the safe, and rather wussy course of action would be to run up to my room and hide. But, in true Maniak style, I decided WTF, let's just do this. Seeing three people wading out of the pool and heading menacingly towards me in an effort to reinforce that decision, I hastily removed all valuables from my person, and running in a much more effective circle (my attackers were hampered by the fact that they were sopping wet), I jumped rather ungracefully and ceremoniously into the pool.
At around 2.30, when I decided that I've cheated death (read fever) enough, I stepped out of the pool, collected my things and headed back to my room, realising that my roommates were perhaps long asleep. I weighed the pros and cons of going back and staying in the pool till they woke up, but finally, with a heavy heart and shivering fingers, I just rang the bell till one of them woke. Does the story end here? Of course not! You wanted details, remember?
Now, when one has just thrown oneself into a swimming pool with all of one's clothes on, the first thing one wants to do when one gets to one's room is to sneak into the bathroom, extricate oneself from said items of clothing and dry oneself off. But of course, the fates must conspire! My bathroom door was locked. From the inside. When both my roomies were outside. Leaving this mystery to be solved another day, I salvaged what pride I had left by changing and drying off in the dark.
Stories from the morning onwards will appear in time.
I thank you for your patience, if you made it this far.
Sunday, 7 September 2008
For those in the OOCBC who don't want to step outside our elite circle, I guess I'll have no option but to beg your forgiveness and forward you to Muduu in general.
Thursday, 4 September 2008
It's my Budday!!!
Now I know you're waiting for something else, and Goa posts will come soon; I haven't the time just now.
So anyway, tonight, I'm going to go to a bar, and asked or not, I'm going to slap some id onto the counter and say, "I'd like my alcohol now."
And because I know you'll be disappointed if I don't put anything more than that up, here's a little postlet...
Official Proof That The Corporate Life Is Not For Me:
Note also the brilliant use of "fields marked * are necessary".
(Mind you, this is only about one third of the actual form. And 'Contact Number' is the only non-requisite field.)
Update (September 5, 2008):
I have no life. On my 21st birthday, I was at work till 9 pm, after which I went straight home to a bountiful but otherwise regular dinner at 11.
Moral of the story:
The day I became legally able to purchase/drink alcohol, I didn't see a drop thereof.
Saturday, 23 August 2008
A question it is recommended you ask yourself (and your near & dear ones) everyday:
Are you a bot?
Thursday, 21 August 2008
The only thing I could remember thinking as I felt each bump when the bus I was in ran him over along with his motorcycle was, "What are the chances someone in a one mile radius knows his name?"
Wednesday, 20 August 2008
Skipping the chit-chat, here we go.
And before you people start asking, this was for work.
Monday, 18 August 2008
But I've now decided just acting gay is not enough to freak men out. For a limited time only, I've decided to look gay as well. Guys, picture that face sidling up to you and saying, "How you doin'?"
Mwuhahahaha. I love being freaky.
Or that one.
Tuesday, 12 August 2008
But it's when you suddenly realise you're starving at half past midnight, after having just sent your mother off to sleep 'cause she was nodding off in front of the TV, and fifteen minutes later end up chowing down a triple-egg, mega cheese-heavy omelette, seasoned with oregano and pepper, shallow fried in purified butter till golden brown with chopped tomatoes, chillies, with multi-grain bread drowning in butter on the side, that you start to realise you're going to be okay.
Monday, 11 August 2008
This delightful little character is the most effervescent of the lot. I met him for the first time when I was something like 11 or 12. What he does best is to reach into my head, and almost by magic, gets these synapses there to dance in a wicked awesome wave formation. And they fire up well for him, too. Out of all the friends you're going to meet, he visits me the most.
This guy is a bunch of fun. Every time he visits, he leaves me slightly off balance. You'll see why he's called that. What he does, essentially, is stuff my brain in a cocktail shaker, and make sure the end result is the smoothest drink you'll ever down.
Bludger: Sorry, Jo, your copyright's just expired.
Now Bludger gets his name for the simple reason that he likes to sit in my skull and bludgeon anything that moves, stays still, exists, or is an illusion in his head. He's rumoured to be the reason for my oh-so-pretty countenance.
This guy's a real party animal. He has these awesome party tricks he likes to show me every single time we meet. He's got these meat cleavers, and he positively insists that I let him dice my brain up. It's really rather amazing how small he can get the pieces to be...
He's one of my favourites. We call him Emgee 'cause he likes to take my brain and rotate it around like a mixer-grinder. A really, really powerful mixer-grinder.
Never one to back down from party tricks, this guy has one of the best. He can make a slight mist appear absolutely anywhere around me. He's especially good at high noon. He's often made it difficult for me to identify people sitting close by, and insists on hanging around, even at night, and particularly when Throbber and Bludger are around.
You have those friends who turn up at the worst times? Hose is one of them. He's my least favourite of the lot. He usually turns up right after Throbber, Bludger and DayGlo leave from one of their little parties. What makes him so irritating, you ask? Rather simply, he sticks around till the waterworks turn on. Cheap shot, b@$#@^d.
So there you have 'em! Now you know my bestest buddies in the whole wide world!
Saturday, 9 August 2008
DD's anchor, Mihier Mankat, is the son of Spock!!! I mean, have you seen his ears? Go look!
Friday, 8 August 2008
I've forgotten my Windows Live id password. It's saved on messenger, so I can sign in there just fine, I just don't know what it is. And so, I can't sign into my mailbox. I found this out when I tried signing in from office. So it tells me to fill in my id and that whole character recognition thing so that it knows I'm human and all that. I fill in the information just like it asks, and it shows me this message:
"Your password information has been mailed to your inbox."
Wednesday, 6 August 2008
The Dark Knight is a brilliant movie. I loved it. Chris Nolan did a wonderful job, Heath Ledger was par excellence, Aaron Eckhart did his bit as Harvey Two-Face, Christian Bale did no better than could be expected of him and his crappy double voice. The plot was great, if a little cluttered, characterisation was good, all in all, a movie I don't mind watching three times in a theatre, especially if one of those was paid for by someone else.
The first time I saw it, I loved it. It was great. I got to the theatre just in time to catch Dino Morea say how one could "go to F***, meet famous people and become famous". Phew. At least I missed the rest of the witty banter. Thankfully, the movie began soon enough, and I was riveted from the beginning. Thoroughly enjoyable despite the immature sports jocks (who were only really there to make out with their wannabe-immature-sports-jock boyfriends) shushing each other just for the f@#$ of it. F***'s (from what I've seen, I'm afraid I'll have to admit) "superior sound and visual quality, never before seen in India" (yeah, I've seen that intro film way too many times) more than made up for the a$$hole jerk-offs and their wannabe-wannabe-girlfriends. Plus it was my first time (yes, that term can be used in this context. Go see the film, you'll get it), so it got me real good.
The second time was with cousins, at Asia's largest waste of expensive air conditioning that comes through the screen. This is the one I didn't pay for; my cousin has a tendency to still think of me as 12, so she insists that I pay for nothing. This time, we were late by five minutes (my bad) and missed the opening scene completely. However, after the whole "I'm not wearing hockey pants" farce, the movie picked up. Particularly enjoyable was my li'l cousin sis jumping out of her skin every time there was an explosion or loud, sudden event on screen, and her even younger brother, utterly unable to decide whether to relish those same moments on screen more or her reactions. Then, Dome-boys decide that their projector has to f@#$ up. The image slows down and comes to a halt on a blank white screen. Little kids get up dejectedly and swear at the projectionist. The less-comically inclined among the audience decide that it's the interval, and concurrently proceed to go out and get some popcorn. And while they're out there, the movie resumes. When they come back in, they audibly say (despite the presence of their own bloody kids), "F@#$, it's started already!". Then, moments later, just for the bloody goddamn crap of it, behind the Gotham skyline, the words, 'The popcorn is waiting for you!' are flashed, and just like that, mid-dialogue, the skyline disappears and the interval begins. After the damn interval, to add insult to f@#$%^g injury, they cut important dialogues just so the movie can fit into their convenient little time slot. Didn't hear of them doing that with Jodha Akbar, though. Gah. There's one place I'm not returning in a hurry without suffering from amnesia.
This next one is the clincher, though. Watch out. It's long. And abusive.
Well, as they say, third time's the charm, eh? My girlfriend found out that I went and saw the movie with my cousins and immediately decided to get mad at me, 'cause she wanted to see it with me. Not, a problem, I said, we can still go watch it. And with that, we arrived at a theater whose name is one letter away from one of the words in the title of this post. I got there a whole 15 minutes early (yes, Kannu, that's not a typo), so we got into the practically empty theatre. The lights go dim, the movie's about to begin. And then it happens. Screaming, running, disorderly, what seemed like a hundred, but was probably closer to fifteen, eleven year-olds enter the theatre. And I groan. I know I'm going to hate this right away. Come 11.30 and the movie begins. Immediately I know something is wrong. Despite having seen the movie twice, I'm struggling to catch the dialogues. And then an explosion happens. Now I know what's happening. The speakers for the dialogues are all the way at the front of the hall, and the music and sound effects are at the rear. Woo the bloody hoo!! It was like watching The Dark Knight enacted by mimes. Aaaaaarghh!!!! To top it off, more kids arrive at 12, searching for their buddies in the dark, in their seats immediately ahead of me. And a loud, eleven year-old argument ensues: "No, I want to sit here!" "Kubir, go sit there!" "No, what are you doing?" GAH!!!!! Ruined the Joker's scene with the mob bosses for me. The rest of the first half continues miserably, and I'm punching the armrest to keep myself in check. Now a man walks into the theatre (it's 12.30), and finds his friend directly behind me, and with utter disregard for anyone and anything, starts conversing, above music level, about what he's missed. That's it. With the rugrats, I stayed my hand. I'm not sitting tight about this. I turn around and say, "You mind? I'm trying to watch." The guy looks at me and says, "Oh, sorry." When I turn around, he says to his newly arrived buddy in an undertone that could still f@#$%^g be heard above the music, "I think he wants us to talk quietly..." Dude. You should be in, like, The All India Braniacs Association or something. And then the interval hits us. Brilliant timing, too, just before the interrogation. I stay in my seat, as the rugrats leave the hall to go get their popcorn. I notice with glee that they come in a minute or so late, sans said popcorn. And then my glee turns to horror. Once again, they start squabbling over seating arrangements. That lasts another five minutes. I was supposed to be holding her hand and all that, but I gently ease away so I can clench my fist and bite down on my knuckles. Finally, they settle down, and the interrogation is just about heating up. Woo hoo! A good scene, and I might just get to enjoy it. Really? Did I really think so? How could I be so self involved? Four, yes, f@#$%^g four attendants walk in with trays laden with popcorn, and the two rows in front of me explode. They f@#$%^g stand up, all of them, and start yelling, "That one's mine!" "I ordered caramel!" "Uncle, what about me?" If they bloody wanted popcorn, they could've gone to the damn beach. I put my head in my hands and give up trying to catch one of the best dialogues in the movie. The movie proceeds, and we come to a point where the music all but fades away, and an important emotional dialogue is on. And the only thing I can hear is the munch-munch of popcorn all around me. I believe I've made my views on audible eating pretty damn clear. This is the point where I was barely even bloody looking at the screen anymore, but the kids piped down for some reason once they had their stupid popcorn. With ten minutes left in the movie, I figured, heck, let me try to enjoy this, at least... But no, the wonderful, loving theatre decides, these dialogues aren't important, let's just play the music and the sound effects. And with that, I step out of the theatre.
And the kids are all going,"Oh, what an awesome movie!" "I want to see it again!" Didja see any of it, even? Goddamn punks. People, understand this. The Dark Knight is not a children's movie. It's not an inspiring superhero story that your kids should see. They won't even f@#$%^g get it for another ten years, minumum. It's a dark, scary movie. It's not a fun family outing. It is especially not a movie you send twenty eleven year-olds to watch, alone. Please. Do your bit for the community. Give back to society. That's all I ask.
P.S. Maniak, I think I've been reading your blog too much; this post is uncharacteristically like most of yours.
Disclaimer: To women out there who thought my blog was interesting and have changed their minds based on my orations about children here, let me clarify. I love the little brats. They're nice. God willing, I'll have my own someday. But I will f@#$%^g teach them to respect other people's money spent on good movie tickets.
Don't get into shit like underwear (pun not intended).
Or pista-flavoured kulfi.
Monday, 4 August 2008
Today I ate lunch at a Chinese restaurant with The Alan Parsons Project playing in the background.
Today I saw a street kid take a crap in front of a public convenience.
Where do we think we're going to get?
Friday, 1 August 2008
"Do not eat iPod shuffle."
(In French) "We are sorry that our President is an idiot. We did not vote for him"
(This is an American brand of clothing manufactured for France.)
"If you cannot read all instructions, do not use this product."
(On a bottle of dog pills) "Use care when operating a car or dangerous machinery."
(On a jet ski) "Never use a lit match or open flame to check fuel level."
"Do not hold wrong end of chainsaw."
(On an oven) "All ranges can tip if you or child stand, sit or lean on open door."
(On a lottery ticket) "Do not iron."
Sydney Tamiia Poitier
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.
Not to be confused with Sidney Poitier.
Her more memorable performances include:
Hood of Horror
The Devil Cats
On The Edge
Oh, and this is a remake of Knight Rider. Here's the cast:
Sydney Tamiia Poitier
Yeah. You read that right. Val Kilmer's starring in a TV series with the leading lady of Hood of Horror. He's really not got a lot of offers these days.
Wednesday, 30 July 2008
"Have you got what it takes to be a Hero. Then name these Legends?"
P.S. That's the actual description for a quiz I just took on Facebook.
Tuesday, 29 July 2008
Dude. Blues is such gay music. I mean it's so repetitive. How can you like it?
To each his own, I guess. What're you into?
Oh, you know, mostly trance...
Sunday, 27 July 2008
I said I wouldn't post about this, but there are things that must be mentioned here. I'm not going to talk about Heath Ledger's performance, simply because that would be tantamount to an insult. But I have to put in my two bits for Director Chris Nolan.
Even though he's dealt with the Joker in a way I don't entirely endorse (for the uninitiated, he's changed the Joker's story from original DC canon), I have to give it to him for the subtlety he's employed in bringing out the Joker's mad genius. I'll draw attention to two things in particular that stood out at me.
One: In the scene where the Joker is setting up the chase of the armoured truck with Harvey Dent in it, he leaves a burning fire engine in the middle of the road, forcing the convoy to take a different route.
Two: In the scene where the Joker goes to meet Harvey Dent in the hospital, he's in a nurse's outfit with a 'Dent' support sticker on the lapel.
Both very subtle, but absolutely brilliant insights into the mind of the Joker, his sense of humour.
Nolan, take a bow.
P.S. Imbd, widely considered the world's most reliable movie rating site, has called The Dark Knight the best movie ever.
Bharat Mein Mahamanav:
This special report by a brave reporter is about a 10 foot, 300 kilo yeti in Meghalaya. How they got their stats is their business alone. We have no right to ask. The report stressed that, "Bharat mein ab yeh ghor khatra aa chuka hai. Aur is khatre ka saamna karne ke liye hamare samvatdata vahan gaye aur unhe yeh video mila."
At this point, they used clippings from this video, a BBC news report on the possibility of Bigfoot sightings in Malaysia. Also, as background for the anchor, they used a montage of images taken from the first page of google image search results for the word 'yeti', including an image of Chewbacca (this one, actually). The newsroom reporter stood in front of it so that any random Star Wars fan watching (such as myself) wouldn't notice.
I'm surprised they didn't use this video for the story.
One hour later:
Special Report: Yamraj Ka Video:
This was a 'Breaking News' report about how last night, an Indian Airlines flight got hit by a bird just before takeoff from Delhi, and some woman on board was filming it while it was happening because she wanted a video of the beautiful takeoff. Instead, says the announcer, she got a video of Yamraj! The reporter went on to provide running commentary in a menacing voice:
"Aur vimaan ki raftaar badhne lagi.
Chalees kilometer prati ghante.
Sath kilometer prati ghante.
Sau kilometer prati ghante!
Aur phir yeh bhayaanak haadsa! Ek pakshi vimaan se takra gayi!
Captaan ne lagaye emergency brake!
Aur vimaan ke nichle hisse mein lagi aag!
Do sau ikyaasi logon ko ambulance aur fire engines ke beech mein plane se utara gaya!"
Then they went on to show practically each of the two hundred and bloody forty one people evacuated from the place by the slider thingie at the emergency exits.
Where does Yamraj feature in this, you ask? Fear not, for our copy-journalists have the answer. In his menacing tone, our announcer proclaims:
"Yamraj sirf teen second door they, par ab iss video mein kaid ho chuke hain!"
Seriously. Now THAT is what copywriters must aspire to be.
Friday, 25 July 2008
But there is one promise among men that is sacred. Its bonds have never been tested, let alone broken, without the breaker's eternal damnation. When two men make a pact which is signed by the Clinking of Beer Bottles / Mugs / Glasses / Flagons / Plastic-Cups-With-Small-Furry-Animals-Painted-On-Side, nothing short of natural calamity may prevent it from being carried out to its fullest.
In terms of hierarchical ranking, the Beer Clink promise outranks, by far, promises written in blood, and by a considerably smaller margin, promises made while peeing next to the other party. Failure to complete one's end of a Beer Clink promise is akin to welcoming an eternal existence painting one's gonads with meatsauce while playing naked with Satan's starving dogs.
Sir, I hope I may consider mine fulfilled.
I now have one of my own for all of them (myself included).
"What will become of a nation, where all people - who should really be doing something - can do is say, 'What will become of a nation where...'?"
Sunday, 20 July 2008
From what I've seen, it's become clear to me that Porn is a woman's industry. The number of relatively well-known female pornstars greatly outweighs that of the males. I know that's not really the greatest argument in the world, but pray let me continue.
Another important aspect I've noticed is that in full length films, it's the women that have the most character development. Men exist in the porn world purely for umm... er... mechanical (=s) reasons. They flit in and out of scenes, completely inconsequential in the greater scheme of things. In most short films, you won't even get to see the guy's face. The women are, and remain, the most important aspect of the film.
In this regard, porn is feminist.
Note: The above post is a representation of nobody's views in particular. Any physical action against the blogger may be met with swift and nut-crunchingly effective litigation.
Saturday, 19 July 2008
Okay, I've confirmed your friend request, even though I didn't know your name till now. What next? Who's going to post the first wall post? Or is this 'Friendship' going to be based purely on application invites?
You just want to take the Off-the-beaten-track track.
Umm... Say what?
Wednesday, 16 July 2008
Today, I officially announce that the Times of India has gone from being the No. 1 broadsheet daily to being India's most widely read tabloid. While this has been a change that occurred long ago, I wanted not to believe it. However, my faith has now been shaken to its core.
16th July 2008, Mumbai Edition.
Pg. 2: Fearing arrest, newly weds rush to court - How couples are afraid of police action from parents against their wedding.
Pg. 4: A jet for Mr. Deshmukh - How Mayawati beat Vilasrao in a race to get a jet.
Pg. 5: Eco-friendly Ganesh idols unlikely this year - How restrictions cannot be placed on size and materials for Ganesh idols for religious reasons.
Pg. 6: Admissions resume, despair continues - How the ambiguous admission procedure continues, harrowing students and parents alike.
And apparently, this news item is more important.
Pg. 3: NRI friend of Rani Mukherjee's uncle robbed
Monday, 14 July 2008
I have taught you all I know, my child. You are now ready for the world. My final teaching to you is this: Question Everything.
Tuesday, 8 July 2008
Ek chutki sindoor....
Er... aadmi ko hinjada bana sakta hai?
Sunday, 6 July 2008
Really, get it, please. It's commanded. Earned. Not demanded.
Most people get:
Result for seat number 3281 is unavailable.
You have to contact your respective Institute/College.
It's just one of the most reassuring ways for them to have framed it. Someone over at Mumbai University must have a real sense of humour.
Wednesday, 2 July 2008
I recently played a game called Hitman. You've played it? It's really difficult, man... I mean, those damn roaches point-blank refuse to stay in one place!!!
God TV is aiming to get new viewers, especially in the younger generation. To that end, they've just released a new computer game. It's called Halo.
There's a new game out that involves two teams, each running a laundry service. The objective of the game is to go to the other laundry's territory and sabotage their washing. It's called Behind Enemy Lines.
Responding to media pressure that their games are too flashy and violent, Rockstar Games is planning to release a new game where players are forced to steal old, run-down station wagons. They're tentatively calling it Bland Theft Auto.
Counterstrike: When every coin on a carrom board refuses to move.
Counterstrike: The average Indian government office.
Saturday, 21 June 2008
*sigh* Life is good.
Friday, 20 June 2008
One once-black Pierre Cardin fountain ink pen.
The pen glides over the page. As smooth as before? Smoother? I can't tell. It fits in my hand like it always has, just so. Perfect. I once tried to find another one like it. I looked in seven or eight different and sufficiently large stationery stores looking for one that remotely equals this one. Nothing. Zilch. Zippo.
Wow. Why the hell did I, or for that matter, anyone, ever stop writing with this? I can see why I kept it so safely.
Damn I wish I lived in the seventeenth century. They wrote like this all the time! And they got to write on parchment, too...
Sunday, 15 June 2008
Friday, 13 June 2008
Thursday, 12 June 2008
She was sprawled out on the floor in the middle of her little room. Her bed was against one wall, a desk against another. All other furniture, she had moved to the extremities of the room. And there she lay, in the centre of the stifling room, windows shut and fan switched off. Spread out under and in front of her was a large, blank sheet, which in turn lay upon sheets and sheets of old newspaper. Abruptly, Netra put down the brush in her hand and stood up. Then in one quick leap, she vaulted to her bed, turning around on her toes on its edge to survey her work so far. In the dim yellow light, the reds and yellows on the page came alive, seeming almost to dance on the sheet. Staring at the page from afar seemed to refresh the bigger picture in her mind, and she leapt off the bed, careful to keep her feet from picking up any of the dust that amply carpeted the floor. "Got to remember to clean that," she thought to herself as she picked up her brush and lay down on the sheet again, resuming where she left off. She lay like that, barely moving but for the motion of her wrist in the silence of the night and the swish-swish of her brush. Intermittently, she stopped painting and closed her eyes for a moment, picturing the image she wanted to create. And then it would resume, the swishing, followed by the bubbling-stream sound of washing her brush, followed once again by the sound of her long, sweeping strokes. Eventually, the stillness of the night got to her, and she started humming, softly, slowly, the songs of happiness and light that the colours seemed to evoke in her. All she knew was the sheet before her, the bottles and brush, and the stroke of her hand. So when she finally did hear the knock on her door, it was louder than it should have been, and she jumped a little out of her skin.
A sliver of light. A gleam from beneath a door. It opened. The sliver expanded to a ray of light and a large figure was framed in it. "Shit," Naina thought. "What the hell are you doing sitting in the hallway?" her dad asked. He towered over her, his imposing frame looming large. Half his face was hidden in shadow, the rest of it twisted back in more rage than Naina thought possible when one has just woken. Meekly, she looked at the ground, shuffling to her feet, gathering up the book and pencil, mumbling, "I'm sorry, I couldn't get to sleep..." "What do you have a bloody room for, then?" her father bellowed. "Don't you know there are servants in the house? Don't you know better than that? What would people think of me if something were to happen to you in my own home? Can't you show me that much respect? You have a responsibility to me. Start becoming a little aware of it. And start showing it." Tears welled up in her eyes, but Naina bit her lip. She would not give him that pleasure. "I'm sorry." she said flatly, her voice empty, catching in her throat. Quickly, she strode past him and into her own room, slamming the door behind her. In a fluid motion that could only have been borne out of years of practice, she reached an arm out behind her and latched it. Breathing out heavily, she leaned with her back against the door, fighting to keep the tears in, when a fist slammed into it. A terrible voice on the other side, maddened with rage, yelled, "Don't you slam a door in my face! Open this door and I'll teach you some respect!" The fist hammered into the door again and again, and through her pain, Naina gave a silent prayer of thanks for her parents' lavish taste for quality. Outside, she could hear her mother, obviously awakened by the clamour, trying to placate her father. He banged on the door one last time before finally walking off, audibly muttering, "I'm glad I only have to deal with one of her." She thought she heard a choking sound, a stifled sob, her mother's voice shaking. That was it. She couldn't take any more. She slid down the door, falling to the floor with a slump. And there, silently and profusely, her tears poured down her face. Many, many hours later, she fell asleep there, from sheer exhaustion.
Netra started. "Shit, Dad," she said, a little louder than was necessary. "Do you have to do that? I might've ruined this!" "Well, it would help, Netu, if you would stop singing at a quarter past two in the night like it's high noon," he replied, a little scorned himself. He stood at her door, leaning against the frame. With his pyjamas and tousled hair, he seemed vaguely comical. "You're supposed to be asleep. When I checked on you around midnight, you seemed rather happily so. What's all this, now?" "Nothing. It's homework. And I couldn't sleep, so I decided to do some work." Netra said, scratching her nose and getting to her feet. "A: You told me yourself you didn't have any homework from college, and I think you'd remember something that big," he said, ticking it off with a finger. "B: Deciding to work in the middle of the night is one thing, waking up your poor old dad and probably half the neighbourhood is another. I'm surprised that I haven't got any calls from the neighbours yet." "What? You're the one who said my voice sounds like honey! Or does that not apply when you're sleepy? Very nice of you to change..." she began, but he cut her off. "Don't you try and sideline me, young lady. I'm all for your art, you know that. I just don't like being lied to. Now, if you'll just politely tell me what this is all about, and promise to go to bed at an even remotely civil hour, I'll leave you be." Netra crossed her arms in front of her chest. "No!" she said, defiantly. "Netra, just tell me what this is for and I'll leave." he said, levelling his eyes on her. "Why do you need to know? I felt like making something, so I made it. Why do you have to keep asking? Why can't you just leave me alone?" She was practically shouting now. "Why do you have to keep prying? You know I'm not like other girls my age. You know I don't go out sleeping with boys, I don't go and smoke or do drugs. All I ask for is a little privacy!" Quietly, her father repeated, "What's it for?" Netra exploded. She let out a groan and picked up the glass of dirty water she'd been washing her brushes in. Before he could do anything about it, she threw the water onto the sheet. Then turning, she walked up to him, and standing very close whispered, "It was going to be a gift for you." With that, she shut the door in his face. He stood outside for a couple of minutes, fazed. A single tear rolled down his cheek. With trembling fingers, he caressed the door, then went back to his room. In her own room, Netra sat at her desk, crying, shaking with anger. Whether at herself or him, she didn't know. Trembling, she did the only thing she knew how: took a large sheet of paper, picked up a brush and began to paint. Black and blue merged effortlessly with red as she moved her hand with violent brushstrokes, filling the page. When finally she stopped to breathe, it was finished. She got up, shakily, and walking to her bed, collapsed into a dream.
Wednesday, 11 June 2008
I see food. From four different times. Thrown into the same pot. A delicious gooey purple-red mixture.
(Don't ask me. I just dream it. The rest is up to you.)
Tuesday, 10 June 2008
And slowly then, we rise from the quagmire, and the past and the future slam into us like cinder blocks thrown from a height slamming into the pavement.
But I also, now, know of a people who do it for noble reasons. For love. For ideals. This is the final frontier. The last hurdle. This is where the almost-strongest, the pseudo-idealists fall.